Got out of my car in the supermarket parking lot and there HE was. THAT guy. The one who wants one of my kidneys and my spleen.
THAT guy I’ve only met a couple times in passing at parties. The one who sells insurance. The one who sold me my ironclad policy that’ll pay my wife a cool $6,000,000 should I die as a result of a runaway trolley car accident on an odd numbered Thursday in July (it pays double if at the time of the accident the Dow Jones Industrial average is above 19,000 and Grand Funk Railroad has a #1 song).
“Well, well, well,” he said, “if it isn’t Mr. Precious Organs.”
“What? Where?” I asked looking around for the guy with the weird name.
“You, man–– you’re Mr. Precious Organs! Don’t you get sarcasm?”
“Oh, yeah, sarcasm. Nice. I love sarcasm.”
“So, you ready to give me the kidney and spleen?” he asked leering at me as if he had X-ray eyes and was scoping other spare parts he might like on me.
“Well,” I said slowly looking at my shoes to make sure they weren’t running, “I haven’t officially decided yet but I’m thinking I may just keep my kidney and spleen…”
“Aw, great! Thanks a bunch, Mr. Precious Organs wants to keep everything for himself, because his organs are so precious and priceless that he can’t help out a pal who might need some back-up down the road…”
“That’s sarcasm again, right?” I asked softly.
“YES! Yes, it’s freakin’ sarcasm and here’s anger. I want your liver, too!!! See, I like to drink lots and lots of booze, and someday I might need a spare liver, so I want yours. You happy now? You keep procrastinating and it’s going to cost you. Kidney, spleen, liver. Pay up, man! You owe me! Pay up!”
“Um, look,” I said, “I, uh… I don’t think I’m under any obligation to give you my organs. I mean, I bought an insurance policy from you and I think paying the premiums on it is the only obligation I’m under.”
“Oh, man, I’m bummed. I thought we were buds, man. Thought we were bros, dude. Now I see we’re just a couple strangers– and that is truly tragic because you’d have been me, man. Together we’d have stared down the Grim Reaper and kicked death’s ass.”
With that he slowly turned and began walking away. I felt like crap– I’d never thought about my donating organs to him in a ‘we’re cheating death’ way. He had a big idea. All I had was my ‘precious organs’, including one heavy heart.
“Hey, let me think on it some more,” I shouted to him.
“Don’t make me ask for the pancreas, too” he shouted back without turning. He flipped me a bird.
Is the pancreas precious?
Well, at least you know he’s not Mafia. They only take fingers…
Wait a minute, Pat. I have an idea. Go to a mortuary and ask if you can have an embalmee’s kidneys, liver, spleen and pancreas. Keep them on ice. Then the next time you see Mr. Organ Moocher, tell him to come by your place and pick up the goods. Put them right in his hands. No plastic bag or wrapping. He will be eternally grateful, I’m sure.